Strings
by MaggslovesPerry
Summary: He never realized she was there until he did. And now he knows he has to write everything down. In whatever order it makes sense.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Luna/Dean at last! Enjoy. This will probably not make sense until the end. Still working it all out.

The rain beats the windows in a never-ending tattoo and in the washed-out room, he sits alone; his only companion the scratching of the quill against the parchment that is stretched out over the solid wood table. He never cared for his name.

After a small while during which he does nothing but sit and write, another man comes in.

With him comes the realization that not only is the room washed out, the young man is also faint. His dark face is gaunt, and lined with pain. In comparison, the bright man, with his orange hair and face rosy from warmth looks overblown. Ripe.

They exchange simple talk. Nothing too fancy. Their voices are melodious over the crackling of the fire and the pounding of the rain. When all the sounds mesh together, an orchestra comes to mind. Different pitches. Slight laughter, and then silence.

The fruitful man has left. The dark one sits down against a post and faces the fire. At first, deep in thought, his eyes reflect the teasing flames. But then his eyelids begin to droop and after several minutes, slight snores are added to the procession.

It is a small while before the two women come in. The first is willowy with thick blonde hair pulled back with a butterfly broach and a voice like a purr (comforting, rolling). Though they both have the distinctive light hair and floral nightdresses, they cannot be more different. The second is a wisp of a girl, her hair hanging like a curtain in front of her face. Her skin is the color of milk even bathed in the warm glow of the fire. The first woman collects a pillow and thick blankets to drape over the man who has fallen asleep, but she leaves the job to the second.

Sweeping her thin hair across her face, the second girl crouches down and spreads the blanket across his lap. He looks peaceful. She props him against her and sets the pillow down, then lets him fall gently down. For a moment the rain beats hard and there is nothing to hear. But when she speaks, her words seem to echo. Even though he cannot hear them. Even though he does not know she was there. Even though the rain would be too loud even if the fate was aligned.

The words echo in her brain for days after. And when she finally tells him, he thinks on it for far too long.

Her voice sounds stretched when she says it, but determined.

"Dean Thomas, I do swear I will love you until the day I die."


	2. Chapter 2

She's got her fingers winding around the moving tail of the cat she called Furlough because she thought it sounded like an artist. She asked for two things when she moved in; her own bed and a cat named Furlough. He found they were both difficult to cope with. The other hand is tracing in circles on the report she should be editing. But instead she's waiting for him to come home. He can tell through the crack in the door. He can tell by the candle on the table and the glazed expression on her expressive face.

But in the instant before her swings open the door, he curbs himself on the anticipation of the joy when she flings herself into his arms. And somehow it starts to seem wrong that such a girl should have a bare finger. The fourth one. He can see it curling around Furlough's tail in constant movement. It's taunting him.

So when he opens the door and opens his arms; he knows. It has always been time.

He realizes he should've asked her father.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't know what he's talking about. Something about snapdragons and sweet peas and the point on the bottom of a heart. It doesn't matter. Every word he's ever said to her has been the same three over again.

He wishes he had planned it; made it more special. A proposal, he has to remind himself mid sentence, is a big deal.

And it is. He wipes tears off her face and fashions a napkin ring with a promise tied around it. He'll get her a better one soon.

She says she doesn't need a different one.

"A promise is a good enough gem."


	3. Chapter 3

Yay.. I've been writing faster.

They sit together in the kitchen, their old bony shoulders colliding over a mug of steaming coffee. Her hair is twisting over her shoulders, no longer young and blonde, but faded and grey. He is seventy three. She likes that the two numbers add up to ten.

"It wasn't a definitive moment." She tells him. The words are light. "It wasn't like you weren't there one day and were the next. You came; then left. And I realized I missed you."

"It was a moment for me." He says. His eyes are staring at her. "I mean, obviously I didn't love you in a day, but I realized in an instant."

"When?"

"Nothing major. No fireworks. I was putting together a folder on the survivors of Hogwarts. And I realized that all my drawings looked like you."


	4. Chapter 4

"Tell me about your mother." His knees were against the bottom of the bed, stretched back against the soft comforter.

She twisted around to look at him. "She's was extraordinary. Really."

"And you could really tell that to anyone."

She glanced up at him, placed a thin white hand on his chest and sighed. "She cried when she got angry. And she used to play records on August evenings. You know the ones that sound like velvet? And she'd let me fall asleep on the old armchair. She'd pull open all the windows and dance with my father."

He pulled her closer into him; letting her continue.

"On the darkest night of the year she'd fill the entire house with floating candles and we'd sleep on the floor. She could draw anything you asked. Like you. She used to draw pictures on little piece of paper and tuck them into unlikely places. In saucers and braided into my hair."

"She sounds like you."

"Oh no. She was so much braver, and more daft. When she died, well, Dad felt that he had to fill both of their places and then he got confused. He didn't know who to be anymore."

He kept his mouth tight shut. She was lost.

"Her name was Pandora. She cried when she got angry."


	5. Chapter 5

He started talking about a Crumple-Horned Snorkack and she was lost. He could talk her to sleep. Lazy circles around each other in the evening. He knew everything and more and she wanted to listen to him for as long as she could.

And for those happy days, she forgot about the shattered man who waited for her at home.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Mass producing now I'm on Christmas Break! Even though these chapters are kind of short, they will bring it together, I promise.

He was early. And as soon as he saw his company, he wished her could turn around and leave again. She was rocking in circles, thin fingers twiddling the assortment of necklaces the hung at odd angles on her skinny neck. She was too pale.

"Hullo Loony."

She smiled slightly down at her short nails. "Hello Dean."

They didn't say anything else.


	7. Chapter 7

Enjoy!

He wants to marry her.

"His name is Rolf?"

She nods.

"So you want to marry him?"

She looks down. The pit of his stomach is making him sink through the floor.

"He knows about Blibbering Humdingers."

His heart seems to shatter.

"I'm sorry."


	8. Chapter 8

Dead. They told her.

She tried to spell widow in her head. Two small sons. One woman old at thirty seven.

"Please." She tried to scream. "Not him too."

I will see him again. I will. I will. I will. This is the only way she can keep moving. And she doesn't want to go home.

She doesn't want to see her children.

"Please get someone." A distressed Healer is saying.

"Please." She tried to fight but is sat on a bed in the corner. The wall is spotted when she presses her face close to it.

She doesn't want to scream.

There's a man walking through the door. He's thirty eight. He's still not done with her.

He's still there.


	9. Chapter 9

Enjoy: Rather short, but important in a way.

He ended up screaming for her to forget him. Because fuck it, she has to be happy to leave him.

The word tastes like an ice cube on his tongue.

Gone.


	10. Chapter 10

He's sitting at another desk. He doesn't want to attend her funeral.

He's eighty now. The numbers add up to eight.

So he starts. Starts with a scrawl of meeting her. His heart, broken in his chest, stirs as he continues. Continues with a scawl of meeting her again. His chest, shriveled and old now, starts to rise and fall. He leads her through their forties. Fifties. Through old age. Through not wanting to get up in the morning. Each birthday card. Each walk in the woods. Each magical creature; she can talk for hours.

Ends with a scrawl of losing her.

"I'll see her again. Someday."


End file.
